


How About It?

by MadameMorganLeFay



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Drabbles, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-05
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-25 00:46:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4940239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameMorganLeFay/pseuds/MadameMorganLeFay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"As he licks your bottom lip and you bite his neck in response, you once again realize you’re well and truly fucked."</i><br/>So, Sunshine's back. And you're trying very hard to be totally cool with that. Drabbles for gap between 3x08 and 3x09.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How About It?

Someone’s blocking the sunlight. You grunt and turn your head only to feel hair tickling the inside of your nostrils… What the fuck? Precisely why is your arm trapped under a lump of soft flesh? _“Get off,”_ you mutter to no avail. The dead weight simply mumbles something inaudible, then wriggles closer. So you decide to wake up, an acidic retort at the tip of your tongue, when you realize that it’s raining buckets outside, your Calvin Klein’s are draped over the alarm clock, and… _Justin_ is sleeping next to you. And you ask yourself, _“Is this some sick joke?”_

You hear Deee Lite on the radio and the discordant clangs of metal pots against running water. Cue the return of the Reign of Terror, by Justin Bonaparte. Should you have enough courage to visit the kitchen, you will once again find everything in total disarray. Knives sticking out of cheese, globs of Greek yoghurt on your crystal-clear table tops, at least one tap running- which puts paid to Justin’s endless lectures about the water shortage crisis. Fuck. You remember things he used to say. You realize he will regale you with the same sanctimonious rants once more. Double fuck.

During the excitement of your reunion, you now discover you broke your mug and that either one of you came all over a quarterly report Vance wants submitted this afternoon! Damn it! After unsticking ten pages, you rush back to your computer and reprint, almost run to the printer only to find Justin about to photocopy pages from a magazine… _“Out of the way!”_ He frowns. _“Excuse me? I seem to remember you threatening murder unless I prepared your mood-boards in an hour, and--”_ You shake your head. _“We came over the quarterly- needs reprinting.”_ Then you both laugh.

He’s here. He’s actually here. You can now say his name without flinching, without being assaulted by inconvenient memories and would-have-dones.  None of your friends will avert their eyes and whisper behind your back about how _“it’s a shame, but I saw it coming.”_ You can walk into the Diner without sagging under the weight of a million gazes. And although Deb still wants to murder you, she can’t accuse you of hurting her beloved Sunshine anymore. No, Justin’s back in the flesh. And this nagging feeling tells you that come what may, past mistakes must be laid to rest.

Up until recently, you’d forgotten about the existence of _“Planet Ocean”_ \- now its mournful theme music and sloshing water blares from your TV. You walk into the sitting-room and see Justin sprawled out on your couch, smiling. He used to spend hours watching this show, sometimes with a sketchbook in hand, repeatedly ignoring requests to change to _“Top Gear”_. You remember all that- not that you’ll tell him. Let him smile and crunch on his Cheerio’s. God, he crunches so loud! You remember that little quirk too! Must be those squeaky clean, calcium rich teeth, damn the fucker. You smile.

What about your breakfast? It either consists of a trip to the Diner, or searching the fridge to see whether Justin has been so kind as to leave you anything. Up until recently, your fridge was either half-empty or filled with things you liked, and you tried to convince yourself that things were better this way. But there’s a definite hint of laissez-faire in your posture as you scan the shelves. Cheese. Lamb shoulder. Peach yoghurt- apparently Daphne swears by the stuff. You also know it’s damn useful for soothing sunburn on your ass- something else Justin isn’t to know.

You play chess at eleven in the morning. Just like your Saturday’s used to be. He’s smiling at you, having just captured a Rook and you do your best not to overturn the entire board and accuse him of cheating. That comes much later, and usually ends in a frantic fuck on the rug and then sharing half a tub of choco-mint ice-cream. You play your Bishop, annexing both his Knight and Queen at the same time; that wipes the smile off his face. _“Fuck,”_ he breathes, biting his nails. _“You asshole.”_ There’s more than one reason you love chess.

One question that could kill the mood is asking whether he drew any pictures of The Fiddler. If so, you hope you won’t find them anywhere; it feels like an invasion of your privacy. Perhaps, were you feeling more honest, you would admit to taking the occasional peek into his sketchbooks for the pure pleasure of seeing yourself in all your naked glory, immortalized in pencil, ink, watercolour, oils, pastels… The thought of him spending hours trying to capture Ethan too makes your stomach ache- so, you stay away from his sketchbooks for a while and try not to hope.

 

**~ooooOOOOoooo~**

 

Sometimes Justin is dead quiet, which makes you nervous. He’s one of those guys who can’t sit still for a minute- always doing, doing, doing. You had never imagined him withdrawn- at least not since he took a bat to the head. There’s a cloud of guilt weighing down his shoulders. You watch him stare around at the Loft as though trying to re-familiarize himself with its beams and overpriced furniture. His fingers drift over some of the fuck-spots you created way back then: the table which cuts into his skin, the couch, the fridge, the floor, the window-sill… Everywhere.

 _“How can you honestly look yourself in the mirror, knowing you work for a sanctimonious and thinly-veiled homophobe?”_ Welcome to the return of self-righteous Justin and the Taylor Inquisition. He tilts his chin upwards into that familiar defiant pose you know and despise far too well. It reminds you of past, present and future arguments, of confrontation, stalemates and compromise. _“It’s business,”_ you say, but not without hesitation. _“Really? Will it be just “business” when he finds out that not only are you a famous gay slut, you’re also regularly fucking the intern?”_ And precisely how can you answer that?

Smoking your first joint together again almost beats the later sex. You are both sprawled out by the window, legs interlocking and staring out into a universe of stars and orange lights. Night-watching from Tremont Street was always a feast for the eyes, but with Justin? He interrupts what should be a philosophical silence every now and then to make mundane comments with a knowing grin. He inhales too hard and then bursts into a tear-inducing coughing fit, which makes you smile. _“Easy, Sunshine… This stuff’s strong.”_ He makes a face at you. _“Yeah, smart-ass- just figuring that out… again.”_

New sex, old memories, new revelations. There’s no such thing as getting enough of Justin’s body. On the nights when he’s too exhausted to trek back to Daphne’s apartment you end up grinding against his ass and fondling his cock as the sun comes up. Whatever he dreams about definitely makes him hard. As he moans, wriggling closer, you pinch his nipples and bite his shoulder, bury your fingers in his hair. This unkempt style certainly matches his habit of leaving shampoos, gels and creams with their lids thrown half a mile away and drinking milk straight from the bottle.

 _“Precisely how many new things did you buy whilst I was gone?”_ You don’t see what’s so shocking about a new coffee table, juicer, bathroom mats, a tank full of koi carp and a new stereo. _“I was just… redecorating.”_ Justin, a self-styled pet lover gazes at the fish gobbling flakes and chasing each other’s tails. _“They’re so cute! Michael says this whole shopping spree was therapy of some sort. He says I should ask you.”_ You suddenly fiddle with a pile of posters on your desk, racking your brains for a casual enough response. _“Tell Mikey to shut up.”_

It would be stupid to expect Ethan would disappear in a puff of smoke, but one minute you’re in the fruit isle at the supermarket, next minute he’s glaring at you whilst holding the orange you reached for. _“I was hoping not to see you again,”_ he says. You smile and grab another orange. _“And vice-versa- although I hear every music hall in Pennsylvania can’t wait to see you again!”_ It’s true; Ethan’s CD’s now sit next to Eminem in the record stores. _“Well, what can I say?”_ Apparently, he has forgotten that you suggested he sign the lucrative deal.

Safe to say, tricks don’t welcome this latest development. Word on the street is _“that kid’s back again.”_ Whoever has the honour of entering your humble abode to find Justin getting dressed, ready to leave, scowls and tries to intimidate him. _“Clearly the twink never strays too far from his sugar-daddy,”_ a store clerk sneers. _“Maybe you can ask Brian to pay for a hair-cut!”_ For some reason, you tell the guy to shut up and get out, but not after Justin snogs your face off in front of him. Mr Jealousy shakes his head as though he saw Jesus.

Justin doesn’t talk about what happened after he split up with The Fiddler, but you remember seeing him in Babylon’s famed back room many a night. You don’t like to guess at how many men he fucked any more than hoping he didn’t take things too far, because some of his partners looked dead rough. And him? He didn’t even seem to realize what he was doing, just thrusting without the slightest reaction. You’d catch his eye now and then… that’s when you’d see something painfully close to regretful desire lingering there. Regretful desire mirrored in your own fleeting gaze.

 

**~ooooOOOOoooo~**

_“Porn night!”_ you announce, bowl of popcorn in hand. Right on cue, Justin groans and rolls his eyes. _“Another evening wasted watching movies with juiced up actors who are an insult to the profession sucking, ramming and fisting in steel cells.”_ He swipes a handful of popcorn. _“You forgot the part where I jerk you off, Sunshine!”_ you say in fake outrage. _“And how we’re both butt naked. And the beads. And my tongue in your mouth. And discussing Machiavelli.”_ He stands there for a moment, silent- perhaps preoccupied- and then kisses you as though making up for lost time.

Productivity has increased at Vanguard, which you may or may not attribute to a certain intern. Bob, encouraged by Justin’s presence meets deadlines with a smile or a gushing comment. _“Justin’s learning really fast, Mr Kinney; it’s making things so much easier!”_ You only raise an eyebrow, fighting the warmth in your chest. _“Seems like they’re teaching something at PIFA,”_ you say, glancing at the glossy posters in your hand. Colours that swirl and jump off the page, grabbing your attention without even trying: precisely what Vanguard needs for another winning campaign… Even if it is to sell baby porridge.

You bring a dildo to work, because seeing Justin without being able to act out your most perverse fantasies on him is excruciating. At first you took unscheduled breaks to indulge yourself, and used up half a roll of toilet paper to clean up the results. Then one afternoon when Vance is out at lunch, you invite Justin for a _“progress review”_ \- a request he actually takes seriously! _“You know I only called you here to shove a dildo up your ass, right?”_ Justin’s eyes widen. _“Here?”_ You snort. _“Yes, here, Sunshine. I’ve been jerking off all morning in frustration!”_

 _“Cynthia’s delighted with your performance,”_ you say as he slouches in one of your office chairs. _“She says she’s never had a guy like you.”_ That makes him sit up. _“What?!”_ And then he laughs, throwing a pencil at your head. _“I’d forgotten how hilarious you can be… but thanks.”_ Of course because he deserves praise. Cronyism and favours aren’t in your DNA; everyone has to prove themselves and you respect Justin because he doesn’t expect any special treatment from you. His commitment to independence reminds you of your college days, full of potential and eager to prove. You smile.

Ah… the joys of take-out evenings. You remember each component as though the last one was only yesterday, rather than almost a year ago. It seems Justin does too, because he undresses in front of you, the Won-Tons lying forgotten on the kitchen table. Grinning, you fetch the ice cream and red wine before slipping out of your jeans where, surprise surprise, you’re _sans_ underwear. By which time he’s already on the rug stuffing his face with fried duck and egg noodles. _“You know full well the fried duck was my order, Sunshine.”_ He only smirks and continues gobbling everything.

Mel of all people catches you smiling absent-mindedly as you recall your morning fuck. _“What the hell you happy for?”_ she says, picking up Gus’ toys. Lindsay’s out at lunch with her boss, and Gus scoffs cookies when his mother’s back is turned. _“Wondered why the cookie bowl’s half empty?”_ you reply, because hell if she suspects the real reason for your daytime fantasies. _“Have you told Gus you bake hashish cookies?”_ She raises an eyebrow, smiling a little despite your traditional hostility. _“Back to your asshole self, then?”_ You only shrug, wondering whether Mel isn’t so bad after all.

On a whim, you invite Justin to a fuck-a-thon at the Baths. When a horde of lustful regulars converge on him upon entrance, you wonder whether this was a good idea. You can’t help tensing up and shooting glares at anyone who gets too close. Some of these guys are creeps who probably wouldn’t have much respect for a firm _“no”_. And as for the fuck-a-thon… well, you such a few cocks but when it comes down to getting laid, you slam Justin against a wall and fuck him until you’re floating in mid-air on a giant wave of ecstasy.

You’d almost forgotten how irritating Justin’s _“borrowing”_ is. Expensive T-shirts disappear for days at a time and wind up on his side of the wardrobe. Speaking of _“his”_ side, clearly in the Taylorian language, _“his side”_ , means _“any side”_. He has yet to return your mp3 player. You could have sworn the level of shampoo decreases every time he hops in for a shower. Socks disappear. Knives and forks are rearranged without your prior consent. He puts his feet on the coffee table and doesn’t understand the concept of a _“green apples only”_ fruit bowl. When you complain, he laughs.

 

**~ooooOOOOoooo~**

Justin’s lost something again- his phone?- which wouldn’t have happened had he simply tidied up after himself. This infuriates you, as whenever he loses something, he rips up half the apartment looking for it, leaving you staring at your glass furniture wondering which will be broken first. _“Oh- here it is…”_ He trails off, retrieving a crumpled piece of paper along with his phone. You don’t need to ask; it’s that _“Rage”_ sketch of JT in the arms of his hero… With rising dread, you watch him smooth it out, his expression unreadable. You turn away before the memories return.

Babylon’s lights glow brighter, and you even like dancing to songs you hate these days. You smile before thinking, and buy a new wardrobe simply for club nights. Tighter jeans, translucent shirts, new shoes. _“You look happy,”_ Justin says, pulling you inside, _“take some E on the way here?”_ You shrug. _“E is my bedtime snack, you know that. Besides, its “Charm My Snake Night”- one must rise to the occasion.”_ Snorting, he orders drinks. _“And to think I’d forgotten your atrocious double-entendres- welcome back!”_ You laugh though, because relief comes easy these days. _“Plenty more where that came from!”_

You argue, as expected. Much as you hate to admit it, when he’s winning in a battle of verbal wit, it’s tempting to throw in Ethan just to irritate him further and score a hit of satisfaction. Justin does try your patience, particularly over the Stockwell issue. And no, taking that discussion off the table does nothing to prevent any more lectures. _“Shut up, for God’s sake!”_ you shout- but then you’re holding a whiskey- your third. He walks up to you until only a breath away and says, _“Fuck you.”_ And when he storms out, you fear it’s deja-vu.

Justin gets drunk at Woody’s and on the drive back asks _“Do you hate me?”_ Completely caught off guard, you don’t reply, assuming this is a prelude to his philosophical ramblings. But he persists. _“Brian… do you hate me? For what I did with…”_ Damn it. Whenever caught in a verbal corner, your favourite option lies in the sweet sound of silence, even if the fleeting ache in your stomach has nothing to do with downing several shots in succession after ordering chili fries at the Diner. _“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”_ It’s the final word on the subject.

More than once, you wonder about Justin’s internship. Call it intuition, but when Daphne comes over one night looking extremely smug and noting _“so it worked,”_ the timing seems pretty damn convenient. You make a point of asking him how everything’s going, and there’s always the faintest smile on his face when he says, _“Fine… Mr. Kinney.”_ Of course he’s taunting you, and his honeyed words go straight to your cock on a Tuesday afternoon right before an important meeting. Sometimes the urge to fuck him senseless on a desk in front of everyone overwhelms you and he knows it.

Mysterious Marilyn seriously won’t give her wheedling a rest. _“Well, it seems like your lucky stars are back in alignment, sweetie,”_ she growls with a wink. Perfect timing, since you brought Justin with you to Woody’s and now he’s seriously confused. _“Brian, I thought you hated fortune-tellers?”_ You pinch your nose. _“Fuck off, Marilyn. And… let’s get a drink.”_ But, because Justin is… well, _Justin_ , he won’t let things go. _“You know, not that I believe in the mystic or anything, but what did she mean about your lucky stars?”_ You take a gulp of Beam, pause… and kiss him.

Somehow, you let the cat out the bag but the truth doesn’t haunt you as much as before. You still fear life with Justin getting too regular, but marvel that you can actually say _“life with Justin.”_ Because you can’t eat with, fuck, squabble, dance with and kiss a guy without thinking that this might go on for some time. Or hoping the longer the better. So you’ve curbed back some of your excesses like unnecessary sarcasm, and he promises only to babble about interesting things after sex instead of abstract theories. Maybe compromise isn’t a dirty word after all.

And for the last time… he’s here- actually here. What better way to remember this than at Babylon where you dance, his arms locked around your waist? God knows you never imagined allowing anyone else this close, let alone trailing their lips up your neck- _fuck, that feels damn good!_ \- but the impossible has happened, ladies and gentlemen. Just as you realized at the Prom, there really is no going back, no Tardis for a last minute rewind. As he licks your bottom lip and you bite his neck in response, you once again realize you’re well and truly fucked.

 

**~ooooOOOOoooo~**

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. You may also want to read _"Heartbreak Hotel"_ , which is set around early Season 3 and may be considered a companion piece. 
> 
> All comments/critiques welcome.


End file.
